


Break Point

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Blindfolds, Bondage, Consent Issues, D/s, Emotion Play, Interrogation, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Sex Toys, Shaving, Temperature Play, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want to be broken." John flinched at Harold's words. Close, then, but not quite. "Broken, then put together again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to immoral_crow and talk2thesky for beta <33
> 
> This takes place in a vaguely season 2 sort of place - Mr. Egret had presumably been around for a while before season 4, right?
> 
> The consent issues are typical of the "bad guys made them do it" and sex pollen tropes, and refer to the scene in the first chapter. Additional tags will be added with the content they refer to.

"Oh dear," Harold said, eyes unfocused on the image in front of him.

"So that is your boy," Weston said. 

The appellation was an unpleasant little addition on top of an already trying day, and Harold snapped, "Yes, that is my associate walking down the street. What of it?" 

"So that's your _associate_ ," Weston said the word as if coated in grime, "talking to the cops."

Harold blinked at the screen. That was indeed Fusco, holding Bear's leash and glancing anxiously at his surroundings.

Evidently not anxiously enough. "I will deal with the matter." Harold trusted that his tone was waspish enough to convey his intent. He was quite angry, as a matter of fact. John should have known that their cover was too fragile to be tested like this.

"Yeah," Weston said, "that's not good enough."

Harold fixed his eyes on Weston, and slowly said, "I beg your pardon."

"You heard me." Weston's eyes were large, a warm shade of brown, and at this moment utterly devoid of anything like human emotion. "We want to see you deal with him."

Harold's heart beat erratically in his chest. He couldn't mean--

Weston made an abortive gesture. "I mean, I get it, he's your right-hand guy, we all make mistakes, right? So clear him." His face blanked with a suddenness that would have been disquieting had Harold labored under the illusion that Weston was capable of empathy. "While we watch."

A way out. There had to be some way out. "The delivery will be here on Thursday." A shipment of sodium thiopental, which was the reason Weston's number had come up, forcing Harold to show up as Egret. "We can do it then. My associate has undergone some conditioning which prevents me from using," torture, Weston wanted him to _torture_ John, "the standard techniques. I can keep him in the dark until then."

"Too late." Weston was smiling again. "Don't worry. We have a way to deal with those." He clapped Harold on the shoulder and left the room, apparently confident that they were in agreement.

Three taps on Harold's phone ensured that nobody was listening in on him. He activated his earpiece and sat in front of the computer, rewatching the video footage of John. Anybody looking in would only see the back of his head as he was reviewing evidence.

"We've been compromised," he told John without preliminaries. 

The rhythm of John's breathing changed subtly. "I can be there in twenty minutes."

"No!" It would be too easy for Weston to change his mind, to decide that John should be interrogated by his own men. "No," Harold repeated, marginally calmer. "Stay away. They saw you talking to-- an acquaintance." He could practically hear the gears turning in John's head, the moment John went over his memories and found the weak spot. "In case you're wondering, I'm not pleased about this."

"Make it fifteen minutes," John said, tight.

Harold resisted the urge to yell profanities. "I am quite safe," he said. "You are the one whom Weston wishes to interrogate."

"Oh." John exhaled. "Okay, is that all? I'll come by later, then. I can give you some tips on how to make it look impressive."

That seemed a little too easy. "You'd still be hurt," Harold said.

"Yeah." John's tone was as easy as if he'd proposed a walk in the park. "Nothing that won't heal, though. Try for shallow incisions on the face, those bleed like you wouldn't believe."

"I would, in fact, believe." Harold sounded distant to himself. He was grateful to be sitting down. "Mr. Reese. I'm not intending to go through with this."

"Sure you are." John's voice shifted subtly. "Because if you don't, they'll kill both of us. So, Harold?"

Harold's mouth was desert-dry. "Yes."

"Do what you need to do to keep us both alive." John cut the connection.

~~

By the time Weston's men brought Harold to the place serving as their interrogation room, John was tied to a chair, bleeding from a cut above the eye. Harold, with a touch of hysteria, wondered if perhaps John took his own advice to heart.

Weston was waiting by him. He had a syringe in his hand, needle glinting in the fluorescent light. Relief spread through Harold: the shipment must have arrived early. John would be spared.

He kept himself composed. "Weston."

"Egret." Weston's eyes glinted as well. "I don't think even you heard of this one, yet." He gave the syringe an experimental push, spraying a fine mist from its tip. "Not exactly truth serum, but easier than pain. Makes 'em beg." He indicated a tool on the table next to them: it reminded Harold of a stick blender with a round head where the blades should have been. "Give him a taste of this, then _stop_ giving him anything until you get some answers."

"I see." Harold didn't, at all. He took a photo with his glasses and sent it to image search. It returned swiftly: _Hitachi Magic Wand_ , used for-- Oh.

In his chair, John struggled. Harold, who knew him, could have told that he wasn't putting anywhere near his full strength into it. 

"If this is as effective as you say it is," Harold said, in a last-ditch effort to stop this madness, "he'll be spilling all sorts of things. I don't want you hearing my business."

Weston threw his head back and laughed. "Aw yeah, _spilling_ is right. Nah, don't worry. My boys will be looking from outside." He indicated the mirror - presumably one-way. "See that he's getting his due. Apart from that, we trust your judgement, Mr. Egret."

"Thank you," Harold said. He hoped his tone gave Weston frostbite.

If it did, Weston showed no sign of it. He handed the syringe to one of his lackeys, who injected John. All of them left the room then, leaving Harold alone with John but for their watching audience. Weston moved out last, pausing at the door. "Oh, almost forgot. This is just in case." He lay a taser next to the Hitachi. "Have fun!" The door clicked shut behind him.

~~

For a short while, Harold simply stood there. He hoped the watchers assumed he was waiting for the drug to take action, or attempting some subtle manipulation, rather than desperately stalling.

"Time's not your friend here, Harold." John's voice was low. His mouth was curved in a little smile, not particularly sincere.

"I know." Harold bit the bullet and approached John, placing two fingers under his chin and tilting his face up. John cooperated, head almost lolling back, looking at Harold from under lowered eyelashes. The cut above his eyebrow seemed superficial. "Are you feeling any... influences?"

"Mm." John shifted as much as his bonds allowed, sinuous even in the little space he had. "You can say that." His eyes lingered on Harold's hands, and his smile grew.

Harold concealed his flinch as an orderly retreat. He picked up the Hitachi. "I could call this off."

The smile slid off John's face. "You'd only get yourself killed. Me, too, so if you're think you're being _kind_...."

"No," Harold said slowly. "I suppose I'm not." To either of them. He turned the Hitachi on. 

Even knowing the device's purpose, the intensity of the vibrations - on the lowest setting - startled him into nearly dropping it. John's reaction, when Harold put the device against his skin, had a similar effect despite being much more subtle. That hitch of breath, that widening of the eyes - to someone who knew John, they were as obvious and as unlikely as a full-out scream.

He had to put up the front of interrogation. "This might be a good time," Harold said, quiet, "to explain to me what you were thinking."

"Fusco said Bear missed you," John murmured. "I thought I'd let him see a friendly face."

Harold resisted the urge to tear out his own hair. Instead he touched the device to John again, almost vindictive in noting the way John's eyes fluttered shut for just one moment. "You thought you'd endanger our cover. For a dog's feelings."

"Endanger _my_ cover," John corrected, then gasped when Harold rested the device's vibrating head right over his nipple. "You were never in any danger."

"Only if I agreed to torture you," Harold countered, "which you can't think would have been acceptable to me."

There was a hint of a whine in John's voice when he next spoke. "But you didn't even have to. Harold--"

"Don't." He removed the device. 

John's body attempted to follow it, evident in the tensing of his thighs and his arms. Tiny sweat droplets dewed his hairline. 

Harold stroked the round head of the device against the outline of John's ribs. "Why do you refuse to prioritize your wellbeing? This is not an isolated incident." Just remembering other times John had been reckless with himself raised righteous fury in Harold. 

"Because it's not important." The words came out through gritted teeth as John tried not to react to the device moving along the sides of his ribs.

They were at an impasse. Harold ran the device up John's left ankle to his calf, and told John that his carelessness was dangerous. John parried with an attempt at glibness. Harold took the device away entirely, then ran it over John's inner thigh down to the sensitive back of his knee, arguing forcefully that he needed John _safe_.

And again and again, even as John trembled and tried to arch into the contact, he refused to see reason.

At last Harold moved away, stepping behind John. John's wrists were handcuffed behind the chair’s back, his fingers clenching into fists and relaxing spasmodically. Harold eyed the angle critically and positioned the device at John's shoulder, so that it would dig firmly into muscle and not over bone. 

John inhaled, a little too fast, his fingers falling abruptly loose. His head nodded back a bit. Harold took care not to hit it with the device: he suspected it would make John's teeth rattle. "Must you be so stubborn?"

"Yeah," John said, quietly. It felt like a confession.

Something had to budge, and Harold's present efforts weren't doing the job. He took a quick breath, turned the device's dial up, and stepped in front of John, laying the device solidly over his groin.

That got an actual groan out of John, though it was quickly suppressed. When Harold moved the device away, John struggled to follow it, using his full strength this time, making the chair creak alarmingly. Harold found his gaze lingering on the momentum of John's shoulders, angle and power combining to create art in a single movement.

Harold continued baiting him, touching the device everywhere John had proven most sensitive before: his forearms, his thighs, his stomach - right above the pubic bone, as far as Harold could guess while John remained clothed. Everywhere, of course, but where John was asking to be touched, his straining form a most potent nonverbal appeal.

And, finally, verbal as well. "Harold," John gasped. "Harold, _please_."

Harold granted the request, but only for the barest moment before backing away entirely, then resuming the slow tease.

"Harold, you're killing me." John sounded strangled.

"Really?" Harold took the device away. "And here I thought I was trying to keep you alive. How silly of me." Another hit to John's nipples, and back to where John was hard, tenting the fabric of his pants obscenely. Down to the inner thigh, and completely away again. "I wish I believed you understood, John, I truly do." Then he rested the device on John's cock, turned up the dial until John emitted an audible whine, then withdrew it again.

For a moment, John's body was frozen in a tormented arc, reaching out for more; then the chair's cheap joinings gave way, and John was sprawled on the floor, face down.

Harold's heart pounded in his chest. He turned the vibrations off and rested the head against the top of John's spine. "Stay."

John made a muffled noise, but no attempt at movement.

Satisfied with this, Harold turned the device back on low intensity and ran it down John's back twice, on both sides of his spine. Then he went back to his legs, moving from the calves up to just under his backside. John arched up, legs spreading open. His cheek was against the floor, the majority of his weight resting on his shoulders and his knees. Harold made the executive decision to count that as obeying his order. 

This position meant Harold had access to much more of John's body - his back and the backs of his thighs, the latter being particularly sensitive; the soles of his feet, covered only in socks and also quite responsive; and, of course, his backside, his testicles, and the fragile skin bridging them. The muscles in John's legs trembled at every step Harold took. 

"I get it." John sounded desperate now, and bewildered, too, belying his words. "I understand. I shouldn't have done that."

"Do you," Harold said. The words didn't want to come out as a question. "Do you, really."

"I do." John's voice wobbled. "I-- I shouldn't have endangered my cover." John was parroting him, which made Harold abruptly furious.

"You're not even trying," Harold snapped. He pulled the device off John and savagely wretched the dial up. "If you even cared," he laid it against John's perineum, and withdrew immediately, "you would not," lay, withdraw, "endanger yourself," lay, withdraw, "in such _stupid_ ways!" 

Lay, and keep it there, until the vibrations must have been more pain than pleasure, drawing overwhelmed sobs from John.

Harold took the device away. He stepped around John's body, moving so he could see John's face. His eyes were very bright. Softly, Harold said, "Do you understand?"

John blinked once, twice. A few tears rolled down his cheek. "Yes."

"Good." He crouched awkwardly and undid John's handcuffs with some effort. 

"On your knees and elbows. Stop humping the floor." John's face reddened. He didn't try to deny the charge. 

John was almost quiescent now, his physical reactions running to shuddering and more than intentionally chasing the device. He was making a low, almost constant noise, its pitch shifting whenever Harold moved. There was a gleaming patch on the floor where his groin had rested a moment before, a spreading dark stain on the front of his pants. Had he climaxed, or was he one of those men who became very wet when aroused? 

The question was immaterial. More than that, it slammed Harold into renewed awareness: of their surroundings, of his own actions, of John. 

There were hostile, violent men watching him methodically reduce John into a quivering, salivating mess. Dear God. What was Harold _doing_? How could he have forgotten himself so thoroughly.

John made a plaintive noise. On repetition, it appeared to be Harold's name. 

Numbly, Harold stepped close. 

"I need it," John whispered, hoarse, "need more. Harold. _Please_."

"Should I give it to you?" The words weren't his, quite. They felt like uttering a line from a script. Coding was like this sometimes, when he'd slept on a problem and woke to found a solution spilling out of his fingertips: as though he was only typing up dictation. 

For long moments, there was silence. 

"I'm sorry," John blurted at last.

"Are you?" Harold said. He gritted his teeth and crouched awkwardly, just low enough to touch John's cheek with his fingertips. 

John's gaze, raised at him, was fathomless. "I want to be," he whispered. "Please, Harold. Make me be sorry."

Harold felt numb as he picked up the taser. He felt guided, still not himself. As though he had slipped on an identity that proved more insistent than most. He was certain he was only going to threaten John right up until blue sparks rose against his skin.

At the first electric crackle, John reared like a spooked horse. He moved back right away, though. Harold gave him three more sharp shocks, one right after the other, until John's eyes rolled back in his head. 

Harold turned the taser off, letting it drop from his nerveless hands as John prostrated himself in front of him.

The room was silent once more, without even the buzz of the taser or the Hitachi. John raised his head, but only enough that his lips brushed the tips of Harold's Oxfords.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” John said. “Thank you,” and the sickest part was that Harold could not detect one whiff of insincerity in him.

~~

Weston's henchmen all gave him a respectfully wide berth, afterwards. Harold was thankful, and did his best not to think too much of the reasons for this. 

In any case he had more pressing matters. John could barely walk, and yet Harold could not stomach the idea of Weston's men touching him, even for an innocuous purpose like helping John to the car. Harold did his best to support him, and with the aid of a purloined desk chair they reached the car quickly enough.

When they made it to the safe house, John was still out of it, smiling and loose as though he'd spent the day in a spa rather than an interrogation room. He collapsed over the bed, eyes slipping shut immediately.

"John," Harold said, discomfited. "At least let me take your shoes off."

John flipped over to lie on his back, granting Harold a sunny smile. "Please do."

There was something almost uncanny about the way John cooperated in his own disrobing - enough that the process ran smoothly, requiring hardly any effort from Harold, but at the same time John refused to do any of it himself. Harold almost left him there, to attempt sleep in his jacket and slacks, before he decided the suit deserved better than that.

The skin revealed underneath was tacky with sweat, and in places dry blood. Harold went to the bathroom and returned with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth.

John looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, his smile secretive. He said Harold's name as though the mere act of speaking it gave him pleasure.

That particular tone of voice, combined with the amount of skin on display, had Harold perilously close to embarrassing himself. He just about managed to recover by fixing his attention on John's cuts and bruises. "Hold still, now," he said, and began washing John clean.

He took a methodical, top-down approach. John closed his eyes when Harold wiped the cloth gently over his brow, then down his cheeks. John's lips were curved in a gentle smile. He raised his chin up to let Harold access his bare throat, strong and vulnerable in equal measures.

When Harold wiped down his chest, John started humming audibly. It was getting more and more difficult to ignore how hard John was inside his underwear, the last bit of modesty that Harold tried to preserve rendered a mockery by the dark stain at their front. 

"You know what I want, Harold," John said when Harold washed his stomach. There wasn't anything like shame in either John's voice or his expression. 

Harold gave him a censorious look. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're referring to." The prim tone he took did little to conceal how his voice wavered.

He ran the washcloth over one inner thigh, and John gasped. Harold moved his attention to the other side, and John moaned and stretched, luxuriously. "Too late," John said, satisfied. His breaths soon eased into the rhythms of deep sleep. Where his underwear had been damp before, they were completely soaked now.

Harold looked at him in dismay. His hands itched to take the sopping garment off, complete his cleaning of John. Yet even his most stubborn attempts at rationalization could not deny the level of self-interest involved.

In the end, he let the underwear be and finished washing as much of John's body as he could easily reach, putting the thought of his own aching arousal out of mind.

\---

The measures Harold took to evade John over the next few days were not the very best at his disposal. Those would involve faking his death again, and tempting as the thought was, the situation wasn't quite that dire.

Instead, Harold cowardly stayed out of the usual spaces they shared, limiting his contact with John to terse words spoken via headphone. They had a number to conclude, after all.

He sat on a park bench and typed on his laptop keyboard, anonymously depositing some pertinent documents in the inboxes of certain IRS officials. After all, Al Capone was brought low by tax evasion. Now Weston would succumb to the same fate. It would take a while for the IRS to act, but that was just as well. Egret would want to lie low for a while, lick his proverbial wounds.

Might Harold Finch want to do the same? Perhaps. Yet the sunshine warmed his back, and he and Reese were alive. That was better than nothing.

He was hardly surprised when John sat down beside him. "So, that's done."

"So it is," Harold replied, still staring at his phone.

John kept a pointed silence for a few moments before saying, "Is that it? You're just going to ignore me forever?"

That got Harold to look at him. "No. Of course not." He sighed, mentally composing himself. "I am, of course, sorrier than you can imagine."

John's face - although perhaps it would be better if Harold thought of him as Mr. Reese, now - twisted into a sneer. "Yeah, I just bet you are."

Harold wasn't done. There was a script to well-made apologies, and Harold intended to see it through. "I have behaved in a thoroughly shameful manner. No," he raised his hand as Mr. Reese made to interrupt. "Even taking the circumstances into account, I have let myself get carried away. I could have done this in a way that would have been," he grasped for words, "less painful." For either of them.

"Yeah, the pain wasn't really the issue," Mr. Reese said tightly.

The name "John," flew from Harold's lips despite his best intentions.

"No." John shook his head. "You know what the actual worst part is? I want it again. Jesus, I can't stop thinking about it." He laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "I'd do a lot worse than kiss your feet to get it."

Harold swallowed. A request for elaboration trembled and died on the tip of his tongue. "I'm sorry." The words were hideously inadequate. "If there is anything I can do--" Harold flipped through plans he'd made for worst-case scenarios. "We can make changes to the way we operate. If you wished, you wouldn't need to maintain contact with me at all."

John flinched, as he hadn't when Harold had sent 80,000 volts through him. "I _can_ control myself."

Was everything he did from here on doomed to cause John more pain? "Of course we don't have to. Whatever you want, John."

John scrubbed at his face. He seemed weary. Harold longed to offer him rest, safety. The sheer irony was threatening to gut him. "Let's not talk about what I want right now."

"Whatever you say, then," Harold said, helpless.

~~

There were enough things competing for the title of _worst_ in this situation that Harold didn't care to choose one. However, the fact that now his mind went to considering John's confession as a request would be a strong contender.

The main point of Harold's uncertainty here regarded the nature of John's... _want_ , that was the word he used: _I want it again_. But which _it_? Harold wouldn't flatter himself by thinking John referred to the sexual portion of the incident. In his youth, Harold had believed wealth and power were sexual attractors: he'd come to realize, as he had got older, that people were merely content to pretend to desire powerful people in order to have access to the security and comfort that their money could provide.

Surely John didn't lack for comfort - or if he did, Harold couldn't believe John didn't know anything more he wanted in this department was his for the asking. As regards safety, Harold could only wish John were more concerned with that. 

What, then?

On consideration, the drug was the only part of the entire incident that seemed remotely like something anyone would want to repeat. Despite his situation when Harold recruited him, John was not prone to addiction - that had been a desperate measure in a desperate time.

One did not need to be an addict to wish for a bit of simple pleasure, however. Certainly John deserved to experience some, and Harold knew well how few pleasures John had. If the substance put John at ease, allowed him to lower his battered defenses for a stretch - if Harold could give him somewhere peaceful to indulge it, some safe circumstance....

Unwilling, too-vivid images floated in Harold's mind. The soft smile on John's face when the drug had first taken action. The languid ease in his position. Harold swallowed and shook his head, as though that would derail that train of thought. He would simply have to make sure whatever circumstances he arranged for John would be safe from Harold, as well as any outside influence.

~~

When John noticed the substance, the expression on his face was akin to the one Harold might have facing a viper or an automatic OS update. Harold, of course, was not there to see it in person, but it did not lose any of its ferocity through the connection.

John lifted the little vial - plainly marked and conspicuously placed, to minimize misunderstandings - up to the security camera, his expression calmly murderous. "Harold," he said, "what the hell is this?"

"The audio-visual feed will cut in three minutes," Harold said. "Your privacy will not be compromised any further. I have several other monitoring routines in place in case of an attack, but they won't provide me with any kind of prurient information."

Apparently, they were not necessary, as John moved to the sink and carefully poured the vial's contents into it. 

"You could also have taken it at your leisure," Harold said, "though that would be much less secure."

John turned and went out the door without another word.

He appeared at the library a short while after - not a long enough interval if he were abiding by the laws of traffic. "I wasn't going to take it at all," John said. Then his calm facade shattered, the words coming out in a hiss: "Jesus, Harold, what were you thinking?"

"You said you wanted," Harold began, and found he didn't know how to finish.

John raked a hand through his hair. "Not that." His eyes darted like a prey animal's. "Not like this."

Perhaps this was payback. The sin of hubris carried its own punishment: Harold had thought to spare John pain - and by proxy, spare himself - only to inflict a much worse, more insidious hurt. 

~~

He watched over John because he couldn't not. 

In fact, that wasn't true. Harold firmly believed that any thinking being could stop itself from doing something, barring certain reflexive responses. Watching John - from afar, over cameras to which Harold ought not to have had access - was a decision. He knew the moral implications, and did it anyway. What that said about him, at the moment, was the least of Harold's concerns.

On the top of which list, at the moment, was the fact that John had gone into a liquor store and come out clutching a bag close to him, like something that needed protection.

Harold hesitated. Then he breathed out - too quiet to be a sigh - and activated his microphone. "John."

Fortunately, whatever foul humor John was in didn't extend to closing his ear piece. He seemed startled for a second, glancing surreptitiously at his surroundings. Looking for cameras.

"Come over, John. Please." Harold didn't try to hide anything in his tone. Not the way it shook, nor the complicated mass of emotions that he couldn't even begin to sort out. 

On his screen, John paused, undecided.

"Leave the bag there, John. Just come here." Harold would resort to begging, if he had to. He owed John no less than that.

Fortunately, there was no call for that. John, after another moment's pause, put the bag down, moving briskly in Harold's direction.

Harold didn't raise a hand to touch the screen. It was mere pixels, nothing like touching John in person, and would only smudge the screen besides. 

~~

By the time John arrived, Harold had something like a plan of action. "Correct me if I'm wrong," Harold said, once John was settled on the couch, looking up at him warily. "I assume that you have been driven to distraction by memories of the incident, and thought to drink them away."

John's expression was mulish. He said nothing, which Harold took as assent. John could lie in far more effective ways than omission, if he chose to. 

"You've been thinking about it for a reason," Harold said. "I was intending to leave you be, as I didn't want to probe a wound, but it seems this one is growing infected. Lancing it would be best. So John, tell me. What was it that you wanted?"

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. He remained silent, but didn't attempt to leave.

"Not the drug," Harold said, "as you told me yourself. I assume not the objective sensation of the device, by itself. It wouldn't be enough to trouble you so - if you cared to try that again, you could simply buy one and think no more of it. You're not prudish enough to find simple sensual pleasure so distressing. Therefore, I admit, I find myself at a loss. I see nothing else desirable about the scenario."

"You wouldn't," John said, terse.

Harold considered this. Every word John said, at the moment, seemed to cost him dearly: he had to assume this sentence was communicating useful data. What about this specific scenario would be most distasteful to Harold, as John knew him? That was obvious enough: the loss of dignity, the inability to hold back.

One man's poison could be another man's catharsis, possibly. Harold regarded John, the visible tension in him, the misery and the yearning writ subtly into John's features. "You want to be broken." John flinched at the words. Close, then, but not quite. "Broken, then put together again."

John folded up on himself. Harold ached with sympathy. Bad enough to undergo such a massive invasion of privacy, but to discover that one _desired_ it - it must be horrifying. 

And yet, John wanted it, a longing powerful enough to seek oblivion in whatever form he could find it. That would never do. Harold put himself in John's line of sight and waited for him to look back. 

When John did, Harold said, "I could find someone else to do this for you, if you prefer, but I would rather take care of this myself." _Take care of you_ was best left unsaid, for both plausible deniability and the fact that John surely knew this already.

"Harold." John's voice was hoarse, raw. "You don't have to."

That was preposterous. Of course Harold had to do it. He was responsible for putting John in this situation to begin with. If John wasn't to be allowed the meager comfort of putting the incident behind him, why should Harold get to? He suspected, however, that John would prove resistant to this logic. "I'm going to do it, unless you refuse outright."

Apparently, that was all the protest John had the strength to offer. He sagged, head lolling back against the back of the couch.  
Harold stepped closer, laid a tentative hand on John's shoulder. "It will be alright," he said. Hearing John's breathing slow, feeling his warmth seep through the material of his shirt, Harold could just about believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

A week, Harold hoped, would be enough to research and plan the service John required of him. Even with numbers to handle, there were always dead moments: when code was compiling, waiting on stake out, even considering the process in the shower.

Location, which by rights should have been the easiest part, proved surprisingly elusive. Harold preferred not to use one of the places where they frequently worked or slept, for compartmentalization reasons. It had to be easily secured, and as comfortable as possible. Even given these constraints, Harold should have chosen one in minutes. Instead, he kept lingering in indecision.

Once he deliberately decided to leave that for later, the scene unfolded itself in his mind as though it was there all along, awaiting to take material form. Harold felt assured to a rare degree that it would be the right course to take. The different responses John might have to certain actions charted decision paths in his mind, all branches combining into a perfect pattern.

Having come to this plan, Harold also realized why the locations he'd looked into seemed so unsatisfactory. The change was vital if he wanted his plan to work. Thankfully it was also relatively minor. 

He did ask John about his preferences, although while not anticipating much of a reply. John looked up like a caged animal, and said, "No gags." Then he clammed up.

"Alright," Harold said. That was one possibility he could take down, then.

John's gaze took on an intent quality. "Not even if I ask." His eyes searched Harold's face. For what, Harold couldn't say.

He merely replied, "Noted," and proceeded in due course.

~~

Harold had brought a laptop with some work on it, in hopes of whiling away the minutes until John arrived. It had been thirty minutes, and Harold had not changed so much as a semi-colon. Instead, he was watching John through the building's security camera.

John was lingering outside, as though uncertain he had the address. Harold knew the assessing look in John's eyes, though. He was looking for weaknesses.

Presumably he found none, since he proceeded to come inside. Harold permitted himself a small amount of satisfaction.

He'd thought to keep working until John walked in, or at least keeping up the pretense, but what would be the use? He climbed up from the couch instead, walking unhurriedly to the door. He opened it just before John knocked. "I take it the security meets your requirements?" Harold inquired. 

The corners of John's eyes crinkled, a hidden smile. "A bit paranoid, I'd call it." 

That was... fair, probably. Harold had had too much experience in having his paranoia proven right. "There are some additional measures that wouldn't be visible from the surface. They should make sneaking up on us impossible." 

"I don't believe in impossible," John said. "But I'll take it if it's coming from you."

Harold couldn't help an answering smile. "As close to impossible as reality would allow, then. Would you like a drink?"

John snorted softly. He took his jacket off, hanging it on the coat rack. "No. Let's get to it." He sounded grim enough that Harold wavered on the cusp of calling the whole thing off.

But then John said, "I've been waiting long enough," low and breathtakingly honest, and Harold wouldn't have been able to deny him anything at that moment.

"I apologize for the delays," Harold said. "I'm afraid they were inevitable. And now, John, please take off as many clothes as you feel comfortable removing."

Harold had several contingency plans in case John wished to stay mostly dressed. He hadn't anticipated needing them, though, and John proved him right by quickly disrobing down to his underwear, then sticking his thumbs in their elastic band, eyeing Harold with clear question on his face.

Harold devoutly hoped that John hadn't noticed him swallowing. "This should do quite well." He turned aside, opened a drawer, and produced a blindfold. "Now put this on." He knew John would peek. There was no question there. However, if Harold had calculated the angles correctly, the limited field of vision would not reveal to John any of the parts Harold wished to keep a surprise.

John allowed Harold to guide him into the bedroom with a hand on the small of his back and some murmured instructions - "There will be a small step, yes, now we approach the bed, please lie down on your back," - and to bind his wrists with padded leather cuffs. Harold attached the wrist cuffs to a simple chain which ran under the bed, not immobilizing John but not allowing him much of a range of motion, either. 

It might have simply been a figment of his imagination, but Harold thought he saw John's breathing slow and even out as he finished tying him up. A thousand ideas came pouring into his mind, all but diagrammed - John standing up with his wrists tied above him, the rope connecting them to the ceiling just long enough to let John comfortably support his own weight, entire body on display; interlacing delicate rope patterns over John's body, the smoothest silk rope Harold would be able to find, in black and blue and green to offset John's beauty to the best effect; a collar around his neck, perhaps--

Harold cut that line of thought off before it could take root and sprout leaves. He had John in front of him right now. Best focus on that. 

He began with John's hands, an established point of contact. Casual acquaintances touched hands all the time. 

Granted, there was nothing casual about the kind of contact that Harold employed here. He had prepared in advance a little bowl of oil beside the bed, a candle burning underneath it to keep it warm. He took John's palm in his, noting the temperature. There was little need: all the research Harold did assured him that this type of cuffs would not restrict blood flow. Nevertheless, he was gratified to find that John's skin was warm.

Perhaps there was more to that than a mere inclination for safety.

The human palm was a fascinating mechanism. The entire human body, really. Harold had gone through several phases in this line of thought, from scorning the physical as useless to finding an appreciation of it to realizing just how fragile everything about it was. Harold had come to a sort of peace with his body, at last. It was finicky and difficult and sometimes outright recalcitrant. So was every kind of hardware, once it got complicated - not to mention old - enough.

John's palm, specifically, could tell you something about its owner. The gun calluses were certainly a hint, and there was tension there, as there was in any other part of John. Figuring out where to put pressure was easy enough, and soon John's fingers curled limp above Harold's grip.

Once Harold was done with John's palms, John was marginally more relaxed. His forearms were subtly turned upwards, anticipating Harold's next move. Harold suppressed a smile and oiled his hands again, moving down the bed to focus on John's feet.

John's breath gave a tiny stutter as Harold's thumb exerted steady force on the arch of his foot. John's head rolled gently from side to side over the bed. Was he trying to get a better view of his surroundings? Or was it merely a response to enjoyable sensory input?

Harold's next stop was John's chest. There he made no pretense of massage. Instead he swept his hands in slow arcs over John's skin, letting contact and proximity do their part. When he moved down, to John's belly, John's face was flushed, his lips delicately parted. They opened further in soundless exhalation when Harold pressed down on the sensitive spot he remembered from their last meeting.

"Is this all right?" Harold said.

"Great." John sounded strangled. Harold might not have known if he were feeling pleasure or pain but for the marked response John's underwear failed to entirely hide.

That wasn't the object here, however. Harold resolved to ignore it. As he ignored the noise John made, too quiet to be called a gasp, when Harold bade him bend his legs upwards and spread them.

Of course, Harold had no intention of touching anything that John's underwear hid. He only wanted access to the backs of John's thighs, to stroke them as well. John's stomach rippled, his breathing labored, in what Harold fancied wasn't only the physical difficulty of holding his legs up in this manner.

"You're doing very well." The compliment slipped out of Harold without his intention, and once it was out, he found it was hard to stop. He spoke warmly of how well John took instruction - of how well John _took_ , period. The words had John squirming as the mere physical contact did not, and the combined onslaught made John shift and tug on the cuffs.

He froze, then, as though he'd done something wrong or forbidden.

"It's perfectly all right," Harold said, still in that even tone. "You are safe here. You can fight if you like. The setup is sturdy enough to hold. You are being very, very good, John."

At this, finally, John moaned audibly.

A mix of words and touches proved more effective than the sum of its parts. Harold murmured, "Well done," dragging his splayed hands down the backs of John's thighs; John whined. Harold rubbed John's belly with firm pressure while expounding on John's many virtues, and John sobbed and struggled against his bonds.

Harold made his way up John's body, unhurried, thighs to stomach to chest to throat. There he lingered, reveling in John's strength and his vulnerability, in the vibrations of the noises John still managed to suppress, as well as those he couldn't.

"Harold," John said, finally, voice raspy. "Please."

"Yes?" Harold continued stroking the sides of John's neck, the underside of his chin.

"I can't. You have to." John turned his head, attempting to bite down on his arm. There was not enough slack in the chain to allow that, however, so he turned his face back to Harold. "I need _something_ , or I'm going to start begging here."

"Very well," Harold said, smiling. "You may beg."

" _Harold_." He sounded so tortured, the poor thing. Harold would have complied, if it weren't for John's own request, made in advance. 

Instead Harold said, "Hush." He wiped his hands on a towel and rested his fingers on John's scalp, rubbing lightly. "It's all right. Hush."

Slowly John settled. Harold imagined he was closing his eyes behind the blindfold, although of course he had no way of knowing. He pushed up into Harold's touch, tentatively at first, then insistent. Harold's smile grew.

That seemed as good a point as any to start the second part of the night. Harold moved away to the other side of the bed, where a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, soap and a razor waited for him. "Now, John, please keep still." 

Before, Harold had been random with his touches. Now he was methodical, shaving down from John's chest to his legs. It was time consuming, but satisfying nonetheless. The transformation itself, smooth skin bared and hair brushed away, was aesthetically pleasing; John's reactions to it all, the warm cloth and the scrape of the razor, were nothing short of minimalist art. "You're being very good," Harold murmured as only desperate twitches of John's jaw muscles revealed his response to Harold shaving his stomach.

Again, he neglected the area of John's groin in favor of moving down his legs. When that was done, Harold grabbed John's ankles. "You may move now." Then he resumed touching him.

If what Harold read was correct, newly shaven skin would be much more sensitive. John's reactions did not disprove this assertion, although it was possible that some of his responsiveness was the effect of what must be a highly suggestive state. It took mere minutes to bring John to begging again. All it required was the lightest scrape of fingernails against his stomach.

"John," Harold said, warmly, helplessly. Then he took one of the candles on the bedside table, and tipped it over John's stomach.

The response was immediate and gratifying. John arched and yelled, legs spreading to find purchase on the bed cover. Harold waited for him to subside before dripping more melted wax, this time lower on John's belly, just above the hem of his underwear. The sounds John made resolved into a low whine, his muscles trembling. He tossed his head like a wild horse.

In Harold, some voice said, _Now._ John stilled immediately at his quiet request, and Harold felt an outpouring of fondness for him. "You are being very good, John," Harold said, and took off his blindfold. "Look how good you are for me."

The room was dimly lit, so that John's eyes wouldn't have trouble adjusting. So that the minute John's eyes were bared, he'd see himself in the ceiling mirror, his oiled and gleaming skin, the spatters of wax, his arms straining against their bonds.

John drew a ragged breath, and another one. Then he let go, profoundly, every single muscle loosening, eyes shutting. 

"I have you," Harold said, resting a hand on John's chest. John shuddered once more, and stilled.

~~

He cleaned John up afterwards, with a bowl of warm soapy water and a washcloth. John kept his eyes shut, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth, for once not hidden away behind his hand. It made for an appealing image.

As before, he didn't attend to John's intimate parts. Though Harold was hard pressed to say how contact with genitalia could be more intimate than what they had just done, he couldn't rationalize touching John in that way. John himself was no help at the moment, accepting Harold's attention as his fair due. The smugness looked unfairly attractive on him, yet Harold couldn't bring himself to resent it. 

When Harold was finished, he draped a towel over John and made to leave. 

John grabbed his wrist. 

Harold paused. "Yes?"

"Your turn, now," John said. He sat up, glancing at Harold from under his eyelashes. Harold was certain he knew exactly what he looked like, and was doing it on purpose. This was effectively proven when John used Harold's brief distraction to try and undo his belt.

Harold flinched. "That is not necessary," he said. He managed to squirm away, either because John chose to let him or because he was still not in possession of all his faculties, with evidence pointing rather firmly toward the latter.

~~

That set the stage for their interactions over the next few days. Harold preferred it to the avoidance and awkward silences they shared before John was sorted out, but only just.

John was insistent, and absolutely ruthless. He found increasingly implausible excuses to take off his shirt. He lounged around the library like a great big cat, showing off his body and his flexibility. He repeatedly invaded Harold's personal space - though, granted, this had been a habit of his for a long time. Possibly one Harold should have nipped in the bud, all things considered.

What his aim was, Harold wasn't sure. Perhaps he sought to humiliate Harold, in return for what John had undergone at his hand. If so, Harold couldn't blame him, although he did think that was a counterproductive way of dealing with the situation. He still preferred it to the alternative where John thought he _owed_ Harold anything for his... help.

It all would have been a little more bearable had Harold's traitorous mind not decided to play along with John's increasingly suggestive behavior. Perhaps it was fair that, in return for having stripped John of his dignity, Harold must now lose all of his. He found himself making more and more flimsy excuses to leave John's presence before the nature of the reaction John provoked became visible. 

John noticed. It only made him worse.

~~

"We have a number," Harold said, turning in his chair.

He caught a glance of John's hands just as he turned, clenching and unclenching. When he looked up, though, John's face looked calm as always.

Or not quite, not exactly. Ever since he had... seen to John, there was an extra spring to his step, some additional fluid grace to his movement. Harold took notice of this, and unaccountably, it pleased him. John was better. John was better because of _Harold_.

And now, John was not. Harold found himself already sketching another plan in his mind, wondering whether John would enjoy a more elaborate binding, how John would react to the simple caress of silk against the inside of his wrist. There was always something satisfying in dealing with a problem one had already solved.

"I can't go out like this." John's voice was quiet, empty of all attempts at flirting.

Harold blinked. "I hoped for more time to plan, but I might be able to improvise something. Why don't you--"

"No." John cut him off with a glare. "Stop making this just about me."

Harold opened his mouth, and closed it. He had no idea what argument to make to this. What else would this be about?

Showing his confusion was a tactical mistake. John noticed it, and advanced. "Haven't I been patient?" His voice was low and smoky, heady: rather than walk toward Harold, he prowled. "I don't know what other hoops you want me to jump through, how I'm suppose to prove that, that I'm _worthy_ \--"

"John," Harold said, softly. "John, no, that's not it at all."

John wasn't listening. He fell to his knees at Harold's feet. His hands were shaking as he tried to undo Harold's belt.

Harold covered them with his own, stilling them. "Look at me." He squeezed, to make a point. Slowly, John's gaze rose to meet his. "I have never met anyone to whom the word _worthy_ would apply more than you." How could John have thought otherwise? "Which has nothing at all to do with the," he grimaced, "dubious privilege of gracing my bed."

Something flashed in the depths of John's eyes. "Why don't you let _me_ decide how dubious that is?" 

For once, Harold allowed every shred of his response to show. Payment in kind - not for humiliation, but for honesty. "I would enjoy that," he said, "very much." Then he squared his shoulders. "Let's discuss the number, for now. When that's dealt with...." He ran his thumb down John's wrist, delighted by the response, the way John's pupils dilated and his breath quickened. "We'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

Fortunately, both of them did well under pressure, and Harold was accustomed to letting one problem percolate at the back of his mind while actively working on another. They got the job done.

Harold was less than completely thrilled with the outcome, since John showed up at the library at the end of the day - triumphant, yes, but also bleeding.

"C'mon, Harold, that's nothing," John said, positively glowing with satisfaction. "You should see the other guy."

"I did see the other guy." Harold grimly applied disinfectant to the cut on John's arm. "I fail to see why more violence should make me happier." At John's microscopic pout, he relented and added, "Although if violence is necessary, I'm pleased that you weren't the one who suffered the worst of it."

"Aw, you really do care," John said, sincere and sarcastic all at once. He laid his uninjured hand on Harold's thigh, a shocking familiarity and at the same time one Harold craved. "So you're going to let me, now?"

Harold shuddered. From the slight dip of John's lashes, he noticed. "Perhaps not today," Harold began, and John flinched.

Harold covered John's hand with his. "I meant to say," he glanced away nervously, "I had plans. Quite elaborate ones, and a quick rut while we're both tired and you're injured would not do them justice."

"Ah." John leaned back, but his eyes were warm on Harold's face. He spread his legs a bit, displaying his body subtly. "I see. But Harold, sex doesn't have to be a whole production every time. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was mind-blowing. But maybe I don't want to be--" his voice faltered.

Harold quietly supplied, "Devastated."

"Yeah." John licked his lips and continued, voice gone slightly hoarse. "Maybe I don't always want to be -- _that_. It takes a lot out of a person. Not to mention, we can't afford to go offline for, what was it, a few hours? We can't do that on a daily basis, and if I have a choice about it, I want sex more than once a month."

Harold blinked, dazed. "You would like to. On a daily basis."

The corner of John's mouth curved upwards. "Yes. I would. In fact," he rose from the chair and sank to his knees with fluid grace. "Let me prove it to you."

"You don't need to prove anything," Harold said, exasperated. He was glad of John's tallness, since it meant on his knees with Harold seated put them face to face. He put a hand over John's cheek and guided him close for a kiss.

John did take him in his mouth, but that was later, after Harold was done explaining to John in thorough details why his notions of inadequacy were utterly unreasoned and silly, with several practical demonstrations.

~~

History repeats itself into routine. He had a mild sense of déjà vu, waiting for John to show up at the safehouse, an untouched laptop perched on Harold's knee. 

It persisted until John undressed, at which point he looked at Harold. In a voice that brooked no argument, he said, "You, too." Then he took off his underwear, showing himself half-erect already.

After a short hesitation, Harold took off his clothes, folding and hanging garments as necessary. John didn't interrupt or hurry him, content to watch Harold baring himself.

Once the last article of clothing had been removed, Harold turned to John. He refrained from making any self-deprecating gesture or word. This was his body. If John disliked it or found it wanting, there was nothing to be done about that. 

Judging by the stirring of John's member and the flicker of heat in his eyes, he did not. That was admittedly a relief, and more than a little pleasing. Harold smiled. "Let's go inside."

~~

He had the ceiling mirror covered up, and he noted both relief and a tiny smidgen of disappointment on John's face. "We'll wash, first," Harold softly instructed.

The walk-in shower was large enough to hold them both comfortably, and had a little bench for Harold to sit on. Underneath it he'd placed shaving implements, and soap. Once John had the water temperature and pressure adjusted for both their satisfactions, Harold passed him the soap. He then made no attempt to hide the fact that he was watching John, appreciating the way water droplets clung to and caressed his body.

John picked up on it, of course, blatantly displaying himself for Harold's enjoyment, eyeing Harold's own hardening cock with interest.

"Not now," Harold said, with some reluctance. He had discovered over the last week that John had a most talented mouth. "My refractory period isn't what it was, and I'll want to have you, later." On a whim, he grasped John's erect cock. "You, however, won't need to maintain an erection to appreciate the proceeds." He'd ascertained that, too, during the last week. Climax didn't make John too sore to enjoy penetration - or possibly, it made him just sore enough to enjoy it all the more. 

John lazily thrust into Harold's grip a half-dozen times before shaking his head and retreating. "It'll be better if I wait."

Privately, Harold agreed, but he felt John could make his own decisions on that front. "Very well. Stand still, and hold on." He indicated a safety handle to John's right. If he slipped while Harold was working on him, that wouldn't be fun for anyone.

Some of the hair on John's body had begun to grow back already. Harold noted the places where it grew, shaving them as necessary so that John was uniformly bare. Then he lathered the very tops of John's thighs, his balls, and the base of his cock. 

He took great care not to nick John and to do an even job, taking his time, washing the razor often. John easily submitted to his touch. When Harold glanced up, to gauge his reaction, he saw John looking down on him with curiosity and more than a little hunger.

Well. The latter he already had ample evidence for, in the form of John's jutting cock, which Harold had to carefully push out of the way time after time. He considered asking John to hold it himself, make it a test of restraint by adding an order to refrain from stroking himself. Then again, he rather enjoyed handling John this way, intimate without being explicitly sexual, and somehow all the more obscene for it.

Finally it was done, John standing smooth and glorious before him, only one part remaining to be shaved. "Turn around," Harold said, "bend over, and hold on." In another situation, he might have had John hold himself open, but safety first. He held John's nether cheeks apart with thumb and forefinger, lathering him with his other hand.

At this attention, John nearly squirmed. Harold could feel the strain in John's breathing, in the set of the muscles in his back and legs. He wished for another pair of hands, that he might sooth John with them while continuing to work, and in the end settled for speaking. "It's all right, John. You're doing just as I said, and doing very well at that."

The words helped somewhat. John was still tense as the very last hair was cut and washed off. Harold kneaded his ass, taking pure sensual pleasure in the firm muscle under his hands. Then he shuffled forward on his bench, urged John to straighten his legs completely, and laid a soft kiss right against John's rim.

John's "Harold!" came out as a strangled shout, oddly scandalized. 

Harold stroked down John's leg. "Do you think you won't enjoy it?"

"I would." John sounded like a man who was walking in the desert, parched. "But you can't, you shouldn't."

"Perhaps you should let me decide that," Harold said, amused at this echo of John's response to his own earlier misunderstanding.

John glared at Harold over his shoulder. Harold regarded him serenely. 

As a matter of fact, it was true that he'd considered this act as penance at first. That had been just after the interrogation. Harold had been beset by guilty thoughts, which were fueled by arousal as much as a wish for atonement: an abasement for an abasement, as if adding two negatives made a positive.

It did not, except in cases of inattention to integer size, but multiplication did. To conclude this analogy, a negative experience may have positive outcomes, which may render an act one once considered humiliating into something intimate and enjoyable. 

At last, John seemed mollified with whatever he read in Harold's expression. He turned back, losing a small measure of tension, and made no protest when Harold proceeded to lick him open.

And open John did, with gratifying ease. He'd been reacting to Harold's attempts at preparation with increasing relaxation as they gained more experience with each other, John's body coming to recognize Harold as a source of pleasure. There was as much trust in this as in the fact that John allowed Harold to a hold a blade against the most sensitive parts of his body, and in the noises John allowed himself to make, shaky and broken as Harold drove him steadily out of his mind.

Harold moved back after a little while, easing just the tip of his finger into John. "I would like to do this more regularly," he said. 

"Sure." John's voice was thick, though not quite desperate yet. "Anything you want, Harold."

Harold didn't wonder whether John truly meant that. John would give Harold whatever he asked, up to his life and his self. The challenge was in determining which requests John would find enjoyable, or at least satisfying on some level. 

Fortunately, he had one at hand. "Let's move to the bed."

They dried off. Then Harold sat on the bed, braced against a host of pillows, and motioned John to sit in his lap. "Not yet," he said, when John took this as an invitation to ease Harold's cock inside himself. He tried to reach for the bedside drawer and failed. "Would you take out what's in the top drawer?"

John did, and Harold enjoyed watching him bend and stretch. Then John was seated again, looking at what he held in his hands: two clamps connected with a chain. Harold had been sorely tempted by some of the more advanced models' aesthetic appeal, but in the end he chose simplicity. Basic hinged clamps, removable padding at the tips, adjustable with a screw, and a connecting chain to weigh them down. These could be used for anything from a cautious tease to serious hurt.

John kept still as Harold affixed the clamps to his nipples, tightening the screw until he caught a hitch in John's breath and no further. "That's it?" John said, incredulously.

Harold gave the chain a sharp tug, enough to make John gasp. "Any further complaints?" Harold asked. John shook his head mutely. "Then shall we continue?"

He kept a hold on the chain as John rode him, using it to enforce a rhythm slow enough to let John's body adjust to him, since John liked to do things as hard and fast as possible and caution be damned. There was something endearing about the way John's initial impatience faded soon into languor, his eyes taking on a dreamy cast as he moved at Harold's direction. Harold did his best to encourage this by murmuring approval and stroking John everywhere, paying special attention to those areas he most recently shaved.

It was also an exercise in self-restraint. The clasp of John's body was incredible, and the sensation of slowly sheathing his cock inside John was still so new. Harold yearned, which was a familiar emotion, and it was for something he could have, which was thrilling and rare. So he had John, at the pace he set to best benefit the both of them, and enjoyed the having as much as the yearning.

He could still only last for so long. By the rising tension in John's body, he too was feeling the urge to orgasm. Harold gripped John's cock, giving him firm pressure and steady friction. "John."

John turned hazy, half-lidded eyes on him.

With one swift pull to the chain, Harold yanked the clamps off.

The immediate, full-bodied _clench_ that was John's response seemed to have driven all the air from his lungs: his mouth was open, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide and very bright. His cock spasmed and spurted in Harold's hand, wetting his stomach, even as other muscles clutched Harold's cock, dragging Harold's own climax out of him.

As soon as they were both finished, Harold urged John off him and with a series of gentle pushes directed him to lie on his back. He put two fingers inside John, where he was wet with Harold's seed, and rubbed where he knew it would elicit the strongest response.

When John swore, Harold pinched his nipple, twisting it until John was arching, body quaking between two foci of hypersensation. His spent cock twitched and dripped a bit more, a response to extreme stimulus that Harold found fascinating. He'd read something about the safe application of electrical currents to sensitive tissue that he thought they might use in a similar manner.

"Harold," John gasped.

He smiled down at him. "What can I do for you?" 

The question was genuine, if a little mean-spirited, since he knew John would grasp for words like a drowning man for a rope, and find none. John did not want him to stop. Neither did he want Harold to continue what he was doing.

He enjoyed teasing John, but only up to a limit. After watching him squirm for a moment, he directed John's hands to take the place of Harold's, and let go of him. John whined in dismay but obeyed, as Harold knew he would.

It felt viscerally wrong to walk away from John like this, when they were clearly not done, even though he wasn't leaving the apartment, and would only spend a few seconds outside the room. Harold took note of that and kept going.

"Close your eyes," he remembered to tell John just as he walked out.

He returned quickly, and John's hissing cry when Harold put ice cubes to his abused nipples was extremely satisfying, as was the attendant jerk of John's cock. Harold watched it curiously, and decided to experiment. He repositioned John's hands to hold the ice in place and gently licked his mostly-soft cock before moving down to his newly shaven testicles. He penetrated John with his fingers again, searching by feel for his prostate, knowing he found it both by inner texture and the way it made John moan. 

He'd also read that some men could come without ever becoming erect, which would be interesting to see. Even if not, this seemed a good balance for breaking John, just the right combination of pain, pleasure, and his helplessness under Harold's directions. "Do you think you could come again?" Harold asked, in the interest of scientific curiosity.

John groaned and said, "Please."

That was not an answer to the immediate question. It was, however, a good indicator that Harold's strategy was working. He considered where to go next - he thought John would enjoy being on his hands and knees, but having to move would set them back a bit. Then he knew what he wanted to do.

He drew John's testicles into his mouth, letting John feel the points of his teeth, and pressed John's stomach right above the pubic bone.

Under his hands, John's body was a paradox in material form, sudden tension screaming to be set loose by motion yet not able to move. It settled itself with John emitting a long cry as he held himself perfectly still, taking the intense pressure Harold put on his prostate from two separate directions without so much as a quiver.

Then Harold let go, and John _convulsed_ , a motion so violent that Harold was genuinely worried for a moment. It passed quickly, though, and in the aftermath John's stomach was shiny with new seed.

John's eyes shone, as well, with something that Harold thought might be termed _awe_. He opened his mouth but stayed silent. His hand reached, searching, for Harold. Harold caught it, interlacing their fingers, and kissed John's knuckles.

He remained there, stroking John's head and his back, for a long time.

~~

For the third time, Harold found himself cleaning up the limp form of a thoroughly satisfied John Reese. Harold had heard it said that three times made a pattern. If so, he was becoming fond of this one.

Now especially, since there was no line saying "this far, and no further," no glaring points of discontinuity. John was sprawled in front of him in all his naked glory, and no part of him was too intimate for Harold to handle. It felt like a victory of sorts. Like conquest.

The thought was intoxicating, and humbling. "If I asked you to open your rib cage," Harold murmured, "and lay your still-beating heart in my hands, you would."

To his surprise, John responded. "Sounds messy." And after a beat, "Yeah, probably."

"Just as well that I won't ask," Harold said, unsure whether he was more embarrassed by his turn to the poetic or the morbid. John's strong arms drew him down, and John kissed him and kissed him until all other thoughts were driven away like so much ash in the wind.


End file.
